


Something Beautiful.

by Fishyz9



Category: Days of Our Lives
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-02
Updated: 2013-03-02
Packaged: 2017-12-04 03:02:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/705782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fishyz9/pseuds/Fishyz9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sonny’s POV. Something short and sweet because it’s the freakin’ weekend again and we have to wait for more WilSon. So Nick has made his intentions clear, and Will and Sonny are dealing with the aftermath. Will surprises Sonny.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something Beautiful.

I’m drained. And it’s surprising to me, really. Watching someone I love beyond sense and reason go through something so painful, watching him be hit wave after wave and flinching each time? I’m exhausted. I’m exhausted by how much I hurt for him.

It’s so much worse than if it was something that was actually happening to me, because I have to stand helpless, watching him struggle. Struggling to stand straight. To find his voice. To keep calm. To not panic. To say goodbye to someone he’s never met but already loves. All of this sits on his shoulders right now and I can’t carry one bit of it for him.

I hope that my presence does something. My hand on his arm, at the small of his back, my fingers through his hair when I hold him. I hope the tactile provides him with what my words lack.

I could cry for him. The very best thing about him has been his downfall in this. His blind spot is his altruism and forgiving nature. I’ve never met anyone with such a capacity for compassion. How many people could give a murderer the benefit of the doubt? And I’m not angry about it, I’m just _frustrated_. He is kind and wonderful and true and what does he get in return? He gets someone abusing the trust he offered so freely.

He knows now what Nick’s true intentions are and the driving force behind them. He knows now that the person he trusted has stolen from him, and in fact _hates_ him for who he is. But not only that, he now has to live with the knowledge that the most precious thing he could ever know will be raised by this person. Raised as a stranger to him. Raised to possible even hate him.

My Will.  Nick has done this to _my_ Will.

His eyes hide nothing when he’s in pain. His voice loses strength, and it’s then that I’m reminded that he’s nineteen. He has an old heart. He has a patience and charity about him that surpasses me by miles, but in everything else he’s still so young. And I know that he feels like he stands alone. I’m there, holding his hand, but he’s so used to distancing himself from his family—trying desperately to overcome a trend of weakness from both sides—that’s he’s forgotten how to lean on them. He’s so used to looking after others that he doesn’t know how to look after himself. Hell, the only time he spoke up before signing away his rights was to defend me.

I don’t understand. I don’t understand how someone like Will, who is everything I could hope to be, could be so abandoned by justice. I tell him that we’re only at the beginning of this fight, that there is another option somewhere that we just cannot see yet, and those blue eyes look at me, trusting me, wanting so much to believe me. I really hope that’s I’m right.

I miss him. Our reunion was so short lived after more than a month apart. I need more of him and I need it now, but everything must—for now—be put on the backburner. For the first time since reading his Valentine’s card, we’ve separated. I needed to check on the coffee house. He had a paper to turn in. We both needed a change of clothes.

He should be here any minute now, I’ve been counting, watching the clock (literally) as I lay back on my bed, hoping to make his presence in my apartment familiar once more. I expect nothing from him right now, not when he is so wounded. And that’s fine, but I need to hold him. _I_ need that. I feel like I’ll die if I don’t comfort him.

When I hear a knock at the door—even his knock is welcoming to me—I’m up, off of the bed. I open the door, ready to pull him into my arms, but I stop short at the sight of him.

He looks no different than usual, save for the fatigue in his eyes that’s at war with what looks like a hint of embarrassment. Scuffed boots, jeans, shirt, backpack, familiar blue scarf…and a rose.

He’s standing at my door, earnest as ever, holding a rose.

“ _Hey_.”  I don’t know why, but I elongate the word, make it sound almost like a question.

“Hi.”

“That’s…that’s a rose.”

“Yeah. Can…can I come in?”

I move out of the way instantly, wait until he’s finally in my apartment once more, and then close the door. He looks around, like he’s checking to see if anything has changed, that it’s all as he left it, and when he looks at me there’s a tired little smile pulling at his lips.

“It’s been a while. I didn’t think I’d be here again.”

“I’m glad you are.”

He nods. “Me too.”

I try my best to wait for an explanation, but he’s looking at me like he’s content to do that and nothing else, like he’s forgotten that he’s holding a rose like it’s a corsage. It’s too difficult to _not_ look at it, so when I do, raising my eyebrow slightly in question, it snaps him out of his Sonny stupor.

“ _Oh_ , right. Um…”

He shoulders his backpack off, gently swapping the flower from hand to hand as he does so, and sets it on the floor. He takes a step closer to me, and whatever he’s about to say has me on tenterhooks.

“I’m going to do something weird and potentially embarrassing, if that’s okay?”

“Uh…sure?” I can’t help my breathy laugh, he’s being so strange in such a typically Will fashion. I’ve missed this.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a folded, crumpled piece of paper. He unfolds it, and the sheer amount of creases in it gives the appearance of a letter that has been held in nervous hands and reread a thousand times.

He holds it tautly, making it crinkle, and looks at me just as his throat bobs uncertainly. “I wrote this before I came over here. It’s why I’m a little late, I’m sorry, I just needed to...to…”

He’s going through hell, but he wrote me a letter, and he’s carrying a rose. “It’s okay” I say softly.

He nods, looking back down at the page, and reads.

“Sonny, these past two days have been _shit_.”

I snort loudly and then cover my mouth with my hand, I can’t help it. Goddamn his delivery. “I’m sorry,” I say instantly, but much to my relief he isn’t offended or mortified. In fact there’s even a ghost of a smile playing across his lips.

“It’s okay,” he admits, and then goes back to reading his letter. “I was wondering to myself how it was that I’m still standing, or even able to still speak after what’s happened, but it took only a second for me to realize the answer.” He looks at me. “You.”

I will not make a noise. I will not even breathe until he’s finished speaking.

His eyes flicker back down to the paper in his hands.

“I think we can both agree that I’m not so great with trying to say what it is I’m feeling. In fact, we wouldn’t even be here right now if you weren’t such a sneak and found that card.”

He looks at me, letting me know that he’s teasing, and I smile at him.

“So, I’m writing this letter because you need to know what it is you do to me.” He takes a deep breath. “The way we found each other again almost by accident? It was complete and utter bliss for me. But it was cut short by two of the ugliest days I’ve ever experienced in my life.”

I’m dying to touch him, but I fold my arms together, determined to let him speak.

 “It feels like we had five minutes together to be happy, and then the next big interruption happened. Suddenly everything became — yet again — all about me and my problems. And I know what it is you’ll say. You’ll say: _my problems are our problems_ , because you’re kind, and you take care of me in a way that no one else ever has.”

“Will,” I whisper, my throat thick. I’m torn between wanting to hear the rest and wanting him to stop. He shakes his head, his gaze not lifting from the letter. He continues.

“So I want you to know that while you help me through this, I haven’t forgotten you. I haven’t forgotten the things I promised myself the first time I realized I loved you. And I’m going to make that promise to you now.”

He crinkles the paper, and his voice is filled with unexpected emotion.

“I promise to love you through anything. I’ll love you when you’re angry. I’ll love you when you’re sick. I’ll love you when you’re annoying. I’ll love you when you’re perfect. I’ll love you when you won’t let me get a word in edgeways. I’ll love you when you’re stubborn. I’ll love you when you make mistakes. I’ll love you if you hurt me. I’ll love you when you’re making me rock climb. I’ll love you when you’re afraid. I’ll love you when you’re old. I’ll love you forever, even if eventually you stop loving me back.”

My words come out in an almost gasp. “That’s _not_ going to happ—” But he shakes his head, and continues.

“It’s an honor to be in love with my best friend. And I know it’s a little late and that I don’t have a coffee bean can, but I’m going to make my belated New Year’s resolution right here in this letter. Here it is: I resolve to make you happy, to make you feel important, and always to make you feel loved.”

He darts a quick look at me, as if he’s almost afraid of what he might see, before he continues.

“Finally, I don’t know if it’s just me who thinks this way, but a lot of the time when…” he wets his lips, shuffles his feet. “When it seems like there’s nothing but misery to feel, and I’m surrounded by terrible things and surprised by horrendous people, I find it difficult to not let myself spiral and just crumble. And…”

He’s quiet for a second, I see his jaw clench.

“And it’s easy to forget that there’s some good still there to be felt. Something beautiful to put things into perspective and to keep me moving…”

He looks at me, blue eyes so full of love, watching me. He lowers the letter and he takes a step closer. He hands me the rose and I take it numbly. I close my eyes when he leans close and presses a kiss to my cheek. His hand gently cups the side of my face, and he murmurs into my ear:

“Thank you for being my something beautiful.”

His hand slides from my neck to my chest, his palm flat against my heart. He won’t meet my gaze.

“And that is totally the last thing I am ever writing you unless it’s your birthday or something, because now I’m afraid to look at you in case I’ve made things awkward by being completely lame and overly emotional, a-and—”

I dip my head with a whispered _Oh my God_ and catch him in a desperate kiss. He sucks in a breath and opens to my kiss. Without a thought he drops the letter, I drop the rose. With a sound close to a pained groan I hold him close by the waist and run my hands up along his sides as he winds his arms around my neck. It’s one of my favorite things, to hold him like this.

I hold him flush against me, not a whisper of air or a blink of light between us. Our lips part, but he keeps his brow pressed to mine, a gentle hand at the back of my head holding me there. Nothing I say now could ever hope to explain what it is he’s done to me.

“That resolution?” I murmur.

“Hm?” His fingers gently thread through my hair.

I nod my head, and say almost breathlessly: “This is a pretty good start.”

He smiles. An actual genuine smile, just for me, amidst all the heartache he’s going through now.

“I had to tell you.”

I nod. “I’m your something beautiful.” I can’t finish the sentence without my voice hitching, my throat thick with emotion.

“You are. You really are, Sonny.” He whispers sincerely.

I kiss him. “I always will be.”

 

 

 


End file.
